


Depth Charge

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Sounding, good giving game, or something, reluctance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in the night, he’d made a quiet vow to stay optimistic. Open-minded. <i>Finch is a decent guy</i>, he’d repeated to himself in the rearview mirror for maybe the billionth time in recorded history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Depth Charge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/gifts).



> Blaming the filth we write on each other since 2012.
> 
> Happy (late) Birthday, buddy. <3

Early in the night, he’d made a quiet vow to stay optimistic. Open-minded. _Finch is a decent guy_ , he’d repeated to himself in the rearview mirror for maybe the billionth time in recorded history. _He gives a damn about whether you get hurt or if you don’t want to do something. He listens. Remember that, dumbfuck, how he listens to you? You’re gonna be fine. You big chicken, everything’s going to be fine. And anyway_ , he adds a little ferociously, _he’s been checking and double-checking and triple-checking for weeks that this is fine by you and you said yes, dummy, every damn time, so if you back out now, you are scum. Remember that. S-C-U-M. So cheer the fuck up._

He’d hopped out of his car with a kind of frosty, brittle enthusiasm. _You let him fuck you in the ass and that turned out pretty good, didn’t it_? It was a weak, last-ditch kind of thought, but it did make him feel a little better. _Be positive. Just be positive._

But it’s pretty damn tough to be positive when Finch is touching him slow and sweet and teasing and he should be melting right now but instead he’s tense and tight and staring at the instrument tray glinting ominously at the side of the bed.

Finch sighs long and slow and lets his head drop to Fusco’s chest. “Do you feel put on the spot?” he asks as he gives Fusco’s cock a gentle, languid stroke. Fusco remains stubbornly limp.

“Something like that,” he mutters. He squirms a little as Finch’s breath puffs warm and wet over his skin.

“Hmm.” Finch lets go of his dick and takes a slightly less direct approach, running knuckles along the inside of Fusco’s thigh. “Cold feet?”

He grunts in begrudging admission.

“It’s alright.” He rolls a little so his cheek is pillowed against the top of Fusco’s stomach. The bump of his knuckles reaches the inside of Fusco’s knee. His hand unfurls, turns over until the flat of his palm is pressed there against his skin and slowly starts to journey upward. “I know how daunting this is for you.”

He pushes his fingers into the space between upper thigh and groin and Fusco twitches.

“We can do something else, if you’d rather,” Finch says, peering up at him as he rubs in a playful kind of way. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah. You do.”

“I don’t,” he insists. “I admit this is something I’ve…” His lips tremble a little as he searches for the right words. “…Wanted. For a while. I’d like to share this with you. But if it makes you uncomfortable, then we just won’t do it. That’s all.”

He’s sick of those big blue eyes suddenly. Fusco breaks his gaze and squints determinedly up at the ceiling. His hand creeps, like a guilty traitor, against the back of Finch’s head and sneaks fingertips in among the spikes of his hair. “I want you to be happy,” he admits, bitterly.

“I am happy.” He rubs his cheek against Fusco’s chest, sleepy and eager. “There’s no need to force yourself to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not forcing anything,” he says. “I’m just a little…little nervous, is all. It’s like you said.”

Finch lets the soft, thin lines of his nails tickle down the top of Fusco’s thighs. “Daunting.”

“Yeah, that.” He snakes an arm around Finch’s head in a gentle headlock. “I’m daunted. I’m daunted as shit.” He plants a kiss on Finch’s hair and Finch wriggles against Fusco, hides his grin. Finch, for whatever reason, goes nuts for that kind of thing. Took a while to figure that out, since Finch seems like the type who’d wipe off a wet kiss or get pissed if you rumpled his fancy suit too much while you held him. He isn’t, though. The really stumbling displays of affection, the ones that Fusco wishes he could take back right after he gives them because Finch is so delicate, those are the ones that Finch goes fucking crazy for. Maybe it’s because, if you’re a guy who’s kind of distant and formal and, you know, hurt, that’s how people treat you. With kid gloves, all the time, to the point where a noogie or a quick, playful wrestling match is something really new and exciting and not just dumb, clumsy fun.

“Come on,” he mutters into Finch’s hair. “We both know you want to. It’s worth a shot to find out if I hate it or not.”

Finch sighs. “You’re really sure?”

“I’m really, really sure,” he lies, squeezing Finch to him firmly. Peering over Finch’s head, he can still see the toothy shimmer of the instruments. “Let’s just go for it before I lose my cool, okay?”

Finch lifts his head, props his chin up on one forearm. He’s frowning. “You will say something, won’t you?” His other hand slides between Fusco’s legs again. “If you start to feel uncomfortable?”

Fusco squirms. “Yeah, of course. I’ll talk your fuckin’ ear off.”

Finch’s frown dissipates, but there’s still a trace of tension in his face. Doubt. It’s with good reason. He’s figured out by now that there’s a lot that Fusco can endure without speaking up if he thinks it’ll make things go smoothly. Fusco’s trying to be better about that, if only to keep that worried, hawkish look off Finch’s face. Now he’ll be overly aware all night, overanalyzing every twitch of Fusco’s body just to know everything that Fusco isn’t telling him. He can’t be doing that, Fusco decides. Finch’ll be on edge all night if he does that.

Finch gives Fusco’s balls a gentle, proprietary squeeze _(yeah, they’re still there, boss.)_ , slips two fingers behind them and starts with the light, tickly scratching routine again. Seems to Fusco that, for all his worries, Finch is in a teasing mood. “I hoped you’d be able to reach climax before we began,” he says, thoughtfully.

“Seems backwards.”

“I suppose it does,” Finch admits. “But then, this is a unique sex act in many ways, not the least of which is that it’s easier when the…person in your role is _not_ aroused.”

“Huhhn.” Fusco already knows this. He knows it because when Finch first asked if they could maybe, possibly try it sometime if it wasn’t too much trouble, Fusco had no clue what the hell the word even meant and Finch, with a look on his face that said he regretted bringing it up, had explained. In mind-numbing detail. With lots of medical-sounding words and visual aids and asides that outlined about fifty million safety precautions. Mountains of safety precautions. So many safety precautions that Fusco wondered (still wonders) if at that point, it’s even worth it.

Just seems like a really long-winded way of telling someone you want to jam a metal rod in their dick. Although Fusco guesses Finch felt the need to explain himself. Frankly, Fusco needed the explanation, although he still doesn’t get why that’s a thing Finch wants from him. The how, though; that, at least, he understands.

So, yeah, Fusco knows that it’s easier to sound him if he isn’t hard. Finch knows that Fusco already knows this, but he keeps repeating stuff anyway, like he’s not sure Fusco’s suitably educated.

“Finch.”

“Mmm?” Jesus. There’s Finch, with his soft fuckin’ hands and his glasses all askew and his shirtsleeves rumpled up and rolled to the elbows and the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth all pink determination, and he’s _here_ and he’s kneeling between Fusco’s legs touching him like all he really wants in the world is for Fusco to come right now, and yet…nothing.

“Listen, Finch, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. You wanna just go ahead? I’m pretty limp now; nothing’s stopping you.”

Finch doesn’t like that. His mouth twists. “You may become aroused with the sound inside you,” he says, like he’s reading off a warning label.

 _Fat fucking chance_ , Fusco thinks. Instead, he shrugs. “You’re a smart guy. We’ll work it out.”

The firm pad of Finch’s thumb circles the head of Fusco’s dick with a kind of certainty. “You’d be more sensitive,” he says, “if you reached orgasm first.” He can’t quite stop the makings of a smile at whatever he’s imagining.

Fusco aims a knee at him, softly. “You sicko.”

Finch flashes a full-blown toothy grin for just a moment. It fades. “I just understand the magnitude of what you’re giving me right now, Lionel.” His thumb moves in a short, straight line, back and forth. Fusco tries for a moment to will his blood to quicken and flow, to be suddenly hard in Finch’s grasp. He feels momentary warmth, a surge of interest, and then some terrible approximation of Finch’s voice lectures in the back of his head, _“The metal sound is then slowly inserted into the urethra…”_ and it’s all over. Unaware, Finch continues, “I’d like to give you something, before we begin.”

“It’s okay, man.”

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate this.” His eyes are all watery and sympathetic and Fusco thinks he’d rather take his chances with the metal rod right now. “I know this isn’t easy and I know how much trust you’re putting in me right now and…thank you. Very much.” Finch leans in over him, cups Fusco’s face in one hand and plants a firm kiss on his forehead. “Whatever happens, thank you.”

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

It doesn’t matter how much this scares him. After that, Finch could say that what he really wants is to shove a fucking power drill in there and Fusco would help him find an electrical outlet.

“Come on,” Fusco sighs, nuzzling against Finch’s chin, his neck. “Are we doing this or what? I’m falling asleep over here.”

Finch smacks maybe a little harder than necessary at Fusco’s upper thigh as he climbs off him. “I need to wash my hands,” Finch says as he throws his legs over the side of the bed. “I want you wide awake when I come back.”

Fusco grins sheepishly at Finch’s retreating back as he heads for the bathroom.

 _“He’s following proper medical procedure,”_ a cowardly voice in the back of his head whispers as the faucet comes on. _“You have at least thirty seconds to get out of here while he’s busy scrubbing up.”_

Of course, he doesn’t move.

In a way, the pressure’s off. He doesn’t have to get hard; he doesn’t have to like any of this. He just has to trust Finch for a while. He’s getting pretty good at that, these days.

_Just trust Finch._

He hears an odd, metallic squeak and leans off the bed in time to watch Finch with his hands held awkward and limp-wristed in the air as he bends over the sink, trying to turn off the faucet with his elbow.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Proper hygiene is paramount,” Finch says. His brows are fixed in a determined ‘v’ as he prods the tap with the sharp knob of his elbow. “My hands are clean. If I touch the tap, my hands will no longer be clean. The bacteria on the tap will become the bacteria on my hands will become the bacteria on the sounds will become the bacteria in your urethra. _Chaos_.”

“You want me to get it for you?” Fusco asks. “It’s not like my hands have to be clean.”

Finch, still hunched over the sink, goes very still. “No. I’ve come this far.”

“Alright. Suit yourself.”

It takes what Finch will say was only a few seconds and what Fusco will say was ten whole minutes, but he gets that faucet turned off and now he’s just standing over that instrument tray on the nightstand, looking from Fusco to the neat row of sounds and back again in a calculating way.

“Can’t we just use the littlest one?” Fusco says hopefully.

“No,” Finch murmurs absently. “Moderation is best in this case. Obviously, you don’t want to use a sound that’s too large, but one that’s too thin can be just as dangerous, if not more so. There’s a greater risk of piercing the-” He falls abruptly silent. “I don’t want to worry you.”

_“Thanks.”_

“Hush.” Finch’s fingers, poised over the tray, give an eager twitch. He selects a sound from the middle of the tray, holds it up so the lamplight gleams along the length. “Open communication is very important right now, Lionel. Sarcasm is only going to make things more unclear.” His lips bend, curl in an unconscious, thoughtful wave. “This will do. Ready?”

Fusco takes a deep breath, until he can’t quite hear the thudding of his heart. “Yup.”

“Are you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Quit stalling.”

The bed beside him dips as Finch sits down. “This ends when you want it to,” Finch tells him in sweet, fearful tones. “Just say the word and it’s done and I’ll never mention any of this again. I need you to understand that.”

“I know.” Fusco reaches out blindly and finds Finch’s thigh. He squeezes. “I know all of that. Just hurry up and do it, okay? All this waiting around is making me lose my nerve.”

“Well,” Finch says, curling cool, faintly damp fingers around Fusco’s cock and holding it upright, “if you’re certain…”

A cold drizzle of lube drips onto the tip of Fusco’s dick and his whole body spasms.

“I urge you to not do that again,” Finch says as he starts to guide the lube into – god, _fuck_ – into his piss slit with the tip of his finger.

“Yeah,” Fusco grunts, eyes still shut tight, fingers groping for a good hold on the sheets. “Yeah, okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Finch’s wet fingertip moves slickly over the head of his cock. “Can you feel it going in?” he asks.

Fusco just nods, because he can feel it, he can feel an icy goddamn droplet of the stuff trickling down the inside of his cock and the sensation is so bizarre he can’t trust his voice.

“Good.”

The end of the metal _thing_ , dripping with lube and warm from Finch’s hands, rests against the head of Fusco’s cock, just testing the waters. Finch moves it in the track of that deliberate circle his finger made earlier. Finch moves it gently around and around, tightening the circle with each completed loop until it rests, almost casually, in the entrance of his urethra. Not pressing at all, just waiting there.

“Would you like to open your eyes?” Finch asks.

Fusco grabs a big handful of sheet and twists. “No.”

“Alright.” Finch’s thumb moves up and down the underside of his cock, like a reassuring hand on his back. The presence of the sound increases, just slightly.

“Don’t shove it in,” Fusco pleads, suddenly.

Finch’s tongue clicks. “Of course not. I’ll never force it. It’s best to just let it…slip in. Let gravity do the work.” He sighs. “This will feel a bit strange.”

The sound twists, turns a little, rocks shallowly in and out of him and then, so slow that at first Fusco thinks his nerves are just getting the better of him, Finch guides it in.

He wrenches at the bedsheet, tries to rip it, because he doesn’t have the words to say what’s happening to him right now. It burns, he thinks at first. It burns, but it doesn’t hurt, it’s just a slow-moving, weird stretch traveling deliberately down the length of his cock. Pressure, cold like steel and warm like blood all at once, is gliding into him, opening him up. He feels like he might have to piss or he might want to come all over Finch’s nice clean hands or he might be totally unable to do either of those things and that’s why he feels like he has to so badly. The sound pauses in its descent and for a second Fusco thinks it’s stopped, it’s over, Finch got it all in and now they’re just gonna hang around and, he doesn’t know, admire it. Whatever it is Finch thinks this is going to accomplish. Fusco tries to relax, tries to let go of the sheet and finds his fingers won’t unbend.

Finch makes a soft, impatient sound. “How does that feel?” Finch asks.

Fusco tries to tell him. He can’t tell him; it’s like the words travel up from his chest and hit a padded wall somewhere in his larynx. Fusco clears his throat, tries again. “Okay.” The voice that comes out of him is croakier than he expects it to be.

“No pain?”

Fusco just shakes his head this time.

“Alright, then.” Finch takes his hand off of Fusco’s dick and pets his knee for a second. He misses that hand on his dick almost immediately but it’s nice being touched in that way, chaste, almost, if it wasn’t for everything else. “We’re going to go a little deeper.”

Inside him, the sound rotates, a careful little quarter turn, and it sinks another degree inside him and he cries out, this sad little burst of sound, and pushes the side of his face into sheets, into pillows, into never seeing anything.

Finch pushes hard at his hips, pushes them flat to the mattress with both hands, and Fusco’s about to tell him to lay off, stop shoving him, when Finch says, “Please don’t move around so much.”

"I'm not," he gasps. "I'm  _not_ ," but he's slowly realizing that his hips are straining up against Finch's grip, like he's trying to impale himself on that little piece of metal. Except he won't, he slowly understands, because Finch let go of his dick to hold him down. It's lying up against his belly, sound protruding and drawing a cold line up Fusco's stomach. He feels his stomach muscles jolt with sharp breath. He forces his hips to drop flat to the mattress.

"There we are." Finch is doing that thing with his flat-trimmed nails again, tickling firm little lines up and down his stomach and his hips and his thighs. "Not so bad, right?"

"Not so bad," he repeats.

It isn't the way he thought it would be. He'd listened to everything Finch had to say about how it wouldn't hurt and he'd be gentle and they just had to pay attention to the warning signs Fusco's body gave them and Fusco had nodded all the way through, like he understood and like he believed and he  _never did_. After all of that, some stupid, stubborn part of him still believed that all of Finch's reassurances were smokescreen and bullshit and when it came time to do the deed, Finch was always going to stab it into him, make it hurt, because there's no way it could happen the way he said. No way could it happen easily.

As Finch's fingertips skim over the sensitive skin just above his pubes and Fusco's dick twitches, warm and hopeful, Finch tells him in reassuring tones, "It's about halfway down. You're doing so well."

"Thank you."

"No." Finch sticks a soft, dry kiss to the peak of one of Fusco's hips. "Thank  _you_." Then, in lower, slightly headier tones, "You should see yourself right now."

He chuckles nervously. "Scared shitless. It's not pretty."

"Very pretty," Finch insists, taking Fusco's cock in hand. "And very brave." Fusco surprises himself by knowing that Finch is touching the sound again: not doing anything with it, just taking hold. Maybe petting it, teasing a fingertip up and down. "May I confess something?"

"Sure." His tongue feels thick and useless. "Shoot."

"I'm particularly excited for this next part."

His heart thuds. "Oh."

"So much so that I'm almost afraid to do it," he continues. A shiver rests in his fingertips as they run up and down the length of his dick, the sound, like they're all one thing. "There's, ah, there's nothing quite like the first time and somehow I'm concerned that I'll do it wrong. Or that I'll do it right, but miss the look on your face or the noise you make. Or I'll do it right and you won't...it won't change anything." He sighs, lets out a muddled laugh at himself. "I'm very upset with myself."

"Aw,  _no_." Fusco tries to prop himself up. "Buddy..."

He comes up on one elbow, opens his eyes.

Fusco blinks the green out of his vision, stares wide-eyed down the length of his own body. "Wow," he murmurs.

Finch, seated meekly between Fusco's legs, still in his shirtsleeves, nods in sheepish agreement.

"That's, uh. That's something."

It is. It's utterly alien and it's fascinating. His dick is upright in Finch's hand, still soft but slightly flushed with interest, now. Jutting from the tip is the sound, shining and straight and solid and impossibly long. He'd known, he'd understood conceptually that Finch was proposing to slide nearly a foot of metal inside of him, but he hadn't really pictured it in his mind, hadn't understood the magnitude. His mouth is dry.

"Alright?" Finch's brow is furrowed. In spite of his worry, there's a faint, patchy blush sprawled across his cheeks.

Fusco nods. "I. Uh. Wow. I pictured that differently." He swallows. "How, uh, how far in...?"

Finch indicates. "Just here," he says, stroking his thumb very lightly over a spot about halfway down Fusco's dick, and now that it's being touched he can feel it, exactly. Any more pressure than what Finch is doing and it might hurt but now it’s just acute awareness. Finch continues hopefully, "You're doing very well."

Fusco frowns. "Not to, you know, ruin it for you, but..."

"No, no!" Finch says in that weird, overly happy tone he uses whenever Fusco lays down the law with him. "You won't. Please, say what you're thinking."

"...Do we have to put the whole thing in?"

A nervous burst of laughter explodes out of Finch and he lowers his head in lieu of covering his mouth. "No, Lionel. Absolutely not. I had no intention."

"Right." Fusco thinks Finch might be making fun of him, at least on the inside. "But, uh, what if it...you know. Goes in by accident. What do we do then?"

"It won't," Finch says flatly.

"You can't know that."

"I can. It won't."

"I'm glad you can be so fuckin' sure of yourself. I'm not so lucky. What do we do if you lose that fuckin' thing up my dick?"

Finch sighs, very slowly. Deliberately, he makes his face still. He looks like someone who's trying very hard not to laugh again. "It would be very easy," he says. "I'd just feel, here," and now he risks letting go of Fusco to trace a firm index finger along the length of his perineum. “And there it would be. I’d just push it back up. Very easy. It won’t happen, though.”

“How can you know?”

He cracks a small smile. “Lionel,” he says, leaning in close, stretching the limits of his back just to get up close and personal with his dick, give it a soft kiss, right beside where the sound goes into him.

“Nnnnhm,” Fusco responds, unable to really form an actual word, or even an actual, recognized affirmative sound.

Slightly emboldened, he laps slowly up the sides of Fusco's dick, making him shiver. Hot breath puffs against him as Finch says, "There isn't enough space, lengthwise, for it to go anywhere."

Fusco throws his head back. “You asshole.”

“I said it as nicely as I could. It’s just not a likely outcome.” Finch gives his cock a few consoling strokes. “Be relieved. Please?”

Fusco tilts back into the pillows, rumbles deep in his chest. “I’m glad you can’t lose that thing in my dick,” he says.

“Good.” Finch’s grip becomes firm. “I’m glad too.” Fusco can feel the faint vibration of his fingers poised on the sound. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” He thinks he is. He’s more relaxed. He’s kinda getting hard, which is maybe a good sign. It’s all demystified, now. It can’t get worse and the worst is a lot better than Fusco thought it would be.

“Will you be watching?” Finch asks.

Fusco hesitates. “Yeah,” he says, finally, propping himself up again so his head rests on the headboard. “What the hell. I’m kinda curious.” Privately, he thinks, _I can’t keep looking away while he does it to me_.

Finch brightens up. “Alright,” he says, gripping the sound between his forefinger and thumb. “Here we go.”

And slowly, Finch rolls the sound between his fingertips, gently screwing it into him. Fusco keens sharply in the back of his throat, sinks a hand into his own hair and clenches. His eyes close to slits, but he keeps them open, fixed on Finch’s work. On his capable fucking hands as they manipulate the slim piece of metal by tiny, unmeasurable degrees and every single one lights off a spark, sends him tight and gasping back into the pillows.

It doesn’t seem like it should be happening at all. It doesn’t seem possible or like something that his body can do without crying out in distress. He thinks about being fucked for the first time, but that was different; he could process that. He could understand the sensations and they were weird and the whole time he was second-guessing himself but after a while he got used to it. He could never get used to this, never. He doesn’t feel like he’s having sex right now; he feels like he’s being run through, like a butterfly pinned to a card.

The sound shifts, sinks further into him, stops. Fusco waits for a moment for some new spark, some new jolt, for pain, finally. Nothing happens. Seems they’re taking a break. Fusco presses his forearms to the bed, pushes back on them until he’s sitting up with a grunt. His stomach is tight, twitchy. Gravity and anxiousness keep sucking it in so sometimes the seldom-seen bones of his hips stick out, visible. His cock is flushed and confused. Finch’s head is bent low, face twisted in concentration. The tip of his tongue is visible in thin waves between his teeth. He keeps making this odd sound way in the back of his throat, a hum that’s visible in the brightness of his eyes.

“Close now,” he mumbles, maybe to himself. “Very close.” He licks his lips.

Fusco, for the first time since this whole thing got rolling, gives Finch a long, hard look. Because Fusco is tense right now, nerves raw and tortured by that stupid piece of metal, but Finch is maybe, if not as tense, almost as tense. Fusco can feel the distant pound of blood in Finch’s fingertips and in Finch’s pale forearm he can just barely spot the twitch of ghostly veins and tiny, delicate computer muscles. He keeps looking Fusco up and down for, who knows, approval? Fusco squints at him through a blur of what he’s pretty sure he can’t pretend isn’t arousal anymore and wonders what the hell is wrong with cool-as-a-fucking-cucumber Finch. _You wanted this, remember?_ he wants to say. _You wanted this so damn bad, you explained the whole thing without fucking blushing, this is something you still want so stop looking at me like that, like you’re scared of what I’ll say. You’re supposed to be the smart one. You’re supposed to be the one who knows what he goddamn wants. You’re supposed to know what to **do**._

And he knows Finch is loving this, in spite of all the worry on his face, because Finch is the painful kind of hard. He’s straining at the front of his pants and he reseats himself every so often, squirms and then goes terribly still, reigning himself in. Fusco wonders if Finch would freak out too bad if Fusco moved his leg a little bit, so he could settle the sole of his foot against Finch’s crotch and just rub there a while. Calm the poor guy down a bit.

Or freak him out a little, which is a possibility. Not a possibility Fusco really wants to play around with while Finch is poking a steel rod around in his dick. Maybe not right now. Take care of Finch later, when this part is all over. Instead, Fusco keeps looking straight at Finch, right into his face, because he knows Finch likes that. Finch keeps going back to eye contact like a touchstone. Like, “Still here? Still happy? Good. Good.”

Finch gives the sound a slow, luxuriously deliberate turn and the sound drops and there’s a feeling deep in him like somebody tied a thread to the core of him and now they’re tugging at it. Fusco turns away, presses his cheek to the headboard, listens to himself making stupid, gasping, pleading sounds.

“Please don’t do that,” Finch says. “Please look.”

He forces himself, wrenches his head around until he’s looking right at Finch, nesting primly between his legs.

Finch lets out this long, quivery sigh. “May I kiss you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I - of course you can. What’re you asking for? C’mere.”

“I. Ah.” He runs his hand up and down the length of Fusco’s dick, a gentle reminder. _Can’t let you go now, Chief. Not while you’re like this_. Except Finch would never say it like that. Finch isn’t saying anything like it now; he’s just implying it with the tilt of his head and the discomfort in his shoulders.

“Okay,” Fusco says, forcing his hands to uncurl from the sheets, rubbing his palms against his thighs to warm them up. He puts one hand over Finch’s, a lighter shadow of his grip on Fusco’s cock. The other just hangs uncertainly in space over the sound. “I got it, just show me how to…”

Finch’s mouth falls open, just slightly. Just a dumb little droop in his lower lip. “Aaa,” he tries, confusion and want kind of stumbling over each other in his head. “You want to...to…”

“I’m just gonna hold it for you. For a while. So you can move. That okay?”

His smile is almost shocking; it’s so sudden and wide, and Fusco realizes that this is the happiest, pure and simple, that Finch has looked this whole time. “Yes. Yes, of course. Just, ah,” and he lets go of the sound for a moment, lets it stand. He takes Fusco’s hand and presses his finger and thumb in a pinch grip around it. It’s less cold than he thinks it’s going to be. “Just hold. Just hold it here. Or, ah, or move it if you like. Whichever you’re most...comfortable with.” He trails off, wide-eyed. His hand slips out from under Fusco’s and Finch just sits back on his heels. He gives Fusco a long, deliberate look.

“Buddy,” Fusco says. “If all it takes to turn your crank is just watching me hold myself, we’ve been doing a whole lot of work for nothing.”

Finch sniffs. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah?”

“A good deal more.” Finch crawls over one leg and nestles in against Fusco’s side. He throws one arm across Fusco’s chest, grabbing hard at his opposite shoulder, and presses his mouth against Fusco’s. “Do you have any idea,” he asks, pushing small, sleepy half-kisses against Fusco’s lips, “what a chore it’s been not to touch you too much?”

“A big fuckin’ chore?” Because that’s kinda how Fusco’s feeling right now, with his hand wrapped loosely around his own dick and the other hand holding up the sound and no hand to grab hold of Finch with, no hand to grope him or play with his stupid hair. Instead he leans against him, crushes up against the kiss.

“Mhmm.” Finch breaks away. “You have such a way with words. It’s astonishing.” He presses his rounded chin into Fusco’s shoulder, tucks his head there against Fusco’s throat. He arranges himself, deliberately, so he’s just staring down at the way their bodies drape together.

Fusco watches too, is immediately distracted by the thin line of metal sticking out of his dick. Jesus, that’s weird-looking. He’s never gonna get used to that. Just like he’s never gonna get used to that weird, unyielding full feeling, or the faint burn, or the sensation there at the root of his dick, the build-up that’s going nowhere.

Curiosity gets the better of him, so he tries touching himself. As light as he can, he runs his fingers up and down and over and around his dick. It’s not bad. He’s not sure why he thought it might be, but it isn’t. He starts to wonder how it’d be if he tried to jerk off for real with this thing in. His fingers twitch.

He strokes himself once, slow and easy. It’s a little dry, a little rough, so he brings his palm up to his mouth and spits in it. That’s better, he decides as he wraps his hand around his cock again. It’s not so bad at all, just tracing over with wet, slippery fingers, really exploring himself. He doesn’t do that too often, he realizes very slowly, with a yielding shift of his hips. When he jerks himself off, he’s just trying to get it done quick and efficient. He’s not trying to explore or examine or get in touch with his body or whatever. Maybe, he thinks as he brushes tenderly at the space just beneath the head of his dick, the spots Finch refers to with cold medical terms and a warm voice, the gathering together of the frenulum, the gentle curve of the corona, maybe he should. ‘Cause he spends a lot of time exploring Finch’s dick like this, ‘cause Finch likes it slow, and Finch does the same to him a lot, real slow, ‘cause Finch never met a kind of sex he didn’t want to draw out an extra twenty or thirty minutes. So it’s come to the point where Finch probably knows Fusco’s dick a little better than he does.

He should work on that. Get to know himself. Kinda late in the game, but better late than never, probably.

But this isn’t himself, not exactly. This is him plugged up and stretched out and sensitive in new ways, weird ways, ways that make him keen back into the pillows at every touch and worry about closing his fist too tight. It’s something.

The sound sits in him, cold and rigid. Around it, he moves in little bits and degrees and it makes him shiver against Finch.

Like a goddamn mind reader, Finch says, “Be gentle.” His hand finds Fusco’s wrist and alights there. He exhales hot across Fusco’s chest. “I’d forgotten how stressful this can be.”

He peers at Finch through eyes that settle at half-closed, heavy-lidded. “Am _I_ stressing _you_ out?”

“Hush.” Finch’s palm slaps lightly against his stomach, slips down to touch just above the root of Fusco’s dick. “I never liked that part. Not being able touch as freely. It’s such a…precise action. Stimulating just one small spot on the body, but such a delicate one that, if it’s done right, it can take you apart.”

Fusco’s fingertips on the end of the sound rotate idly, rolling the sound between them, like he somehow forgot what was in him, what turning it would do. His breath catches and he shivers, shudders really, lifting his hips and somehow having the presence of mind to lift the sound with him as he just spins it slowly, not pressing down, not pulling back, just rotating and drawing out the feeling.

When he drops back, Finch’s arm is beneath him, hand pressed happily in the curve of his waist. The other hand comes to rest on Fusco’s hip. Finch peers up at him, wet-eyed and flushed. “May I?”

Fusco lets the sound go. It stays where it is.

He got hard, somewhere along the line.

Finch takes the sound by its very end, fingertips all crowded on the last centimeter and he starts to just shift it, back and forth, in and out, like he’s scratching an itch, except he’s creating one deep in Fusco and it sends Fusco craning back into the pillows with a whine, pressing his hips hard into the bed so he doesn’t arch up and pin himself onto it.

“It can seem very distancing,” Finch says, thoughtfully, as though he’s not _fucking_ Fusco’s _dick_ with a _piece of metal_. “All stimulation occurring through a, hah, third party and so forth. I imagine I must seem very far off to you now. Very unaffected.”

“No,” he tries to say but he can’t get the words out. It comes out as a kind of desperate grunt because every short, gentle thrust of this sound sets off clusters of light behind his eyes and sends him scrabbling both heels wildly against Finch’s smooth, fine sheets, desperate for purchase. Anything that will let him chase what he’s feeling. He manages to get his hips off the mattress only to slam them back down. Anything to get away.

“There’s something to be said for vulnerability,” Finch is saying and somehow, over the pounding in his ears, Fusco can hear him. “For openness. And trust.” Finch is planting soft kisses below his ear, along his jaw, onto the corner of his mouth. “I feel very close to you right now, in spite of things.”

Fusco presses his face against Finch’s with a whimper, nose smashed flat against his cheek, and he just shudders closer, clings tight.

“Are you ready to be done? Are you close?”

Fusco nods wordlessly, nuzzles until his face is pushed into the curve of Finch’s neck, right along his pulse.

Finch feels feverish, overheated and trembling. “Alright,” he murmurs. Finch’s chest keeps expanding in short bursts. Fusco wriggles closer to him, feels the press of Finch’s hard-on against his hip. “Here we are. Here we are.”

The short fucking motions come to a ponderous stop and soon it’s just poised inside him, waiting. Slim, still, heavy weight.

“Are you ready?” Finch asks.

“Yeah,” he pants against Finch’s ear, barely coherent, hips twitching back against the sheets. “Yeah, do it.”

“Ask me to?” Finch purrs all sweet in his ear, and that’s the thing of it. This is already real difficult for Fusco and fuck Finch, really fuck him for making all of this that little bit harder. For tearing down that last shred of his pride. It should be pissing Fusco off a lot to hear something like that, right on the edge of something that scares the hell out of him, except he’s suddenly overcome with that electric drill feeling that means he’d let Finch do anything to him because Finch would be the one doing it.

“Please?” he murmurs weakly.

Finch gives that sound another torturous little twirl.   “Please what?”

“Please stick it in me, please, please.” He tucks his face in close against Finch, pants further pleases on his cheek and on the lobe of his ear. “Make me come just from that,” he encourages, testing Finch’s ear between his teeth.

And Finch, sweet as he is, makes that sound glide into him smooth and fast.

It’s like jumping off the top of Mount Everest, probably, or at least going off a real high dive. There’s that awful, terrible, amazing tug deep in the pit of his stomach, and it’s tugging through him, into him, probing and exploring and unlocking and scratching an itch deep down in him, one he never knew he had until it’s calmed by the pass of the sound. Fusco’s aware of crying out in one long, hoarse shout and he’s aware of flattening out, not thrusting up or pulling away but accepting. He’s aware of the throb of his dick as it’s stroked deep and thorough from the inside, as it’s stretched wide and held wanting. He’s aware of a moment when he becomes too sensitive to bear it and the moment when the sound passes even that threshold and then he’s just crying out, babbling to Finch that he can’t anymore, he can’t, he’s sorry, he can’t.

So Finch covers his mouth with soft, slightly chapped lips and he swallows up all Fusco’s babbling in the generous hollow of his mouth and he pulls that sound out, slow and steady.

The orgasm, politely, chases after, doggedly follows the end of the metal strand and bursts forth just after it does and he’s crying out against Finch’s lips and it’s a good crying out.

After the jerking and the twitching subsides and the mind-numbing pleasure is just a fine, warm tingle at the base of his skull and the base of his dick, Fusco tries to assure Finch of that. But his tongue has gone sloppy and mute, so he near-silently endures Finch’s apologies and his soft, chaste kisses and his pleas to know what’s wrong and is Fusco feeling okay. He endures that until he gets the wherewithal to move a little, whereupon the first thing he does is throw arms around Finch and clutch him close, flat to Fusco’s chest, until he stops apologizing.

So that’s better.

Later, Fusco feels a little more apt to move, so he rolls Finch onto his back and nuzzles his face against Finch’s guiltily hard dick and uses his mouth and his tongue and his fingers to take all the sorry right out of Finch.

And that’s better still.

“So,” Finch says, in a tone of voice that suggests he’s not all that confident in the question he’s about to ask. “What did you think?”

Fusco breathes in once, sharply. “Well, I wouldn’t want to do it every day.”

“No,” Finch says. “I don’t think I’d want to do that either.”

“But I liked it more than I thought I would,” Fusco says. “A lot more. What about you?”

“Mm?”

“Was that…I don’t know, was that what you hoped it was going to be?”

Finch makes a high-pitched edgy sound at the back of his throat. “Not exactly.”

“Oh.”

“You surprised me,” Finch says, taking a big, gentle, cushy handful of the inside of Fusco’s thigh. “A few times.”

“Good surprises?”

“Most of the time.” Finch squeezes, lets go, soothes with a gentle rub from his palm.

He doesn’t say anything right after that. He just shoots Fusco a wary little look, shoots another look at the instrument tray where the removed sound lies balanced on the edge, wet and gleaming.

“So would you wanna...?” Fusco coughs, tries again. “You know, would you wanna do that again sometime?”

Finch fixes him with that intense, earnest gaze of his, round and raw blue. “If you’d like.”

“It, uh, it wasn’t my favorite,” he says. “But it’s different, you know? Different in a good way. Breaks things up. Uh.”

Finch chews on that for a while. “I feel the same.”

“I’m. Uh.” Fusco rolls onto his side so he’s facing Finch. “I’m sorry. I kinda screwed up your thing, didn’t I?”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Finch sighs, and he drapes an arm around Fusco’s neck, holds the back of his head in one lube-sticky hand and pulls him close. “It couldn’t have happened without you.”

Fusco hides his blush by burying his face in Finch’s throat. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Finch shifts a little, settling his bones, throwing a leg over Fusco’s thighs to keep his spine all straightened out. “We can do something you like next time,” he adds apologetically.

Fusco is open-mouthed, kissing at Finch’s neck. “Mmph?”

“Your…your thing,” Finch clarifies. “Whatever your thing is. We can talk about it.”

“Think you might be my thing,” he mutters against Finch’s soft throat. “Is that boring?”

Finch curls tighter around him and pushes his face firmly into the top of Fusco’s head, so Fusco can feel the press of his sharp nose and his mouth against his scalp, and he can feel the shape of Finch’s lips as Finch says, firmly, “No.”


End file.
